


Standing in the Present

by Sylvan



Series: Not Just Horsemen Come in Fours [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvan/pseuds/Sylvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuing where Rooted in the Past left off, Methos has to deal with Cassandra, and Grey makes things interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing in the Present

Grey woke early, as always. Not opening his eyes, he contented himself with his other senses. The faint scent of the body beside him was very human and pleasant. The warmth of the skin under his fingertips pleased his sense of touch. The bed was a trifle too soft, but that was acceptable. He opened his eyes and grinned at the sight he had fast become accustomed to: Methos asleep, with his arms wrapped around the pillow. Even in sleep the other man seemed to be concentrating, as if he were reading some important tome.

Grey eased out of bed so as not to disturb Methos. He closed his eyes for a moment, the memories relived the night before playing across his eyelids. Sorrow, bottomless but manageable, swept through him. What he had feared all these years, that remembering would threaten his sanity as it had when he had told Mariah, had not occurred. Perhaps it was because he had many new memories to buffer the heartbreak of fifty years ago. Oh, Jo, he thought wistfully. He added a pair of sweats over his boxers, gathered up his laptop, and slipped from the room. 

He stopped in the kitchen to start coffee brewing, pour himself a glass of orange juice and wash his hands. When he was finished there, he moved into the sunlit parlor. He had managed to numb himself for a time with Methos. The many experiences of the oldest Immortal were a welcome distraction from Dige's loss. A smile touched Grey's face. Even if Adam Pierson were real and not a shadow-self, he would be a distraction and a comfort. Telling Methos about Meerschweine the night before had broken Grey's numbness and forced him to confront deeper emotions. He missed Dige with an ache that would not heal but the loss did not overwhelm him. The desire to avoid that pain had driven him to isolate himself from his family. 

It was high time for him to check in with them. The last time he had contacted them was to send a brief e-mail note to say he was going to Paris with Adam Pierson. He had been too in shock at that time to feel safe talking to them in person. If he had talked to them, he might have slipped up and revealed that Adam was really Methos. Now that some time had passed, Grey felt steady and in control of himself. He was sure he would not accidentally reveal anything particularly dangerous. He opened the laptop and activated it. Brushing his fingers lightly upon the touch-sensitive screen, he activated the satellite-video program. 

It was hours earlier in the Ukraine, yet he wanted to see their faces and hear their voices. He was sure they would forgive the hour. Still, he was surprised when the connection opened almost immediately to blackness. Then a lamp turned on and the blackness parted to reveal Tran, in loose sweats, halfway off the bed and blinking owlishly at him. Mariah came into view next toTran, wearing a violet satin gown. She, however, looked wide awake. She was never muzzy in the morning. 

Grey grinned at them. "Hey, you. Fancy meeting you here." 

Tran stared at Grey blankly for a long moment, then memory and surprise cleared his eyes. He shook his head, smiling wryly. "How does he do it?" 

"How does who do what?" Grey asked,confused. 

"Young Pierson. When I had my first conversation with him, I ended up pouring my heart out to him. You haven't spoken of Meerschweine in years." 

Mariah leaned down and touched Grey's image on their screen, smiling affectionately. "You look well, Grey. How DOES he do it?" 

"He's very receptive. Not judgmental. When he's curious about something, he's like a dog worrying a bone." 

"I would like to get to know him, too," Mariah said, tilting her head. 

Grey felt his cheeks grow hot. If only! He ducked his head. "Someday, maybe, he'll want to come see the ranch. He's entrenched here, though." He had to swallow past a lump in his throat to ask his question. "How is everything?" 

He saw his own melancholy reflected in their faces. Mariah answered, "The Ymeragas are still here, helping out. There are no problems. But the girls are heartbroken over Dige's death." A tear rolled down her cheek, seemingly unnoticed. 

Grey's throat tightened, and he had to sip his orange juice before continuing. "What do the boys say?" 

In spite of herself, Mariah giggled. Tran smiled and answered the question. "They haven't SAID much beyond offering condolences. I think they will wait a respectable period before courting Mariah." 

They all laughed, remembering that ever since the Ymeraga kids had been gainfully employed at the ranch, the older boys had been trying to convince Mariah to leave Dige for one of them. It felt good to laugh together. The desire to be with Tran and Mariah, dormant since Dige's death, woke almost violently in Grey's heart. He brushed his fingers along the images of their faces. "I'll be back, on schedule," he assured them. They nodded with clear relief. 

Tran suddenly lowered his eyes, tilting his chin down in embarrassment. "That's good. I am not quite ready to share her." 

Grey felt a brief wash of surprise. Of course. A broad grin split his face. "Congratulations!" At that, Mariah blushed furiously. In a way, there was no real surprise to this development. Mariah and Tran were well beyond a student-teacher relationship. Tran's lovers in nearly three thousand years could be counted on both hands. Who could Tran take for a lover, trapped in a body that was permanently a child's? People his apparent age were only just beginning to willingly think about sex. Mature people either did not want a child, or were perverts, but Mariah had always thought of Tran as a man. 

It was she who interrupted Grey's thoughts. "Have you learnt more about Adam Pierson?" 

Grey's ear-splitting grin made them both roll their eyes. He answered reasonably seriously. "I do know him better. And now I know more about Achmed Al Khazar, and that woman, Melinda Krager." Their eyes lit with interest, and they waved at him to continue, settling on the edge of the bed like little children. "There is a secret society called the Watchers. Adam says they may have been founded by Aristotle, but even they don't know anymore. They follow Immortals around and record what happens in our lives. They never interfere." 

"Although Achmed did!" Mariah exclaimed, amazed. 

"Yes. And if the Watchers had known, he would have been executed for it." 

"And Melinda Krager is one, too. But how does Pierson know about them?" 

Grey grinned. "Well, they don't know about him. He's a Watcher." 

Tran shook his head, violently. "That's a hell of a revelation." 

Just then, the familiar feel of an approaching Immortal washed over Grey. He turned his head. "Adam?" he called, to alert Methos that they had company of sorts. 

"Here," came the low, rich baritone. Methos, dressed only in his black jeans, strolled into the room. Grey chuckled at how Methos, when relaxed, seemed to dominate a room. It was as though he spread out in all directions. Quite different from his Watcher identity. Adam Pierson was a shy man who tended to scrunch in upon himself. Methos straightened up in surprise at the sight of the faces on the laptop's screen. Then he draped himself over Grey's shoulder and smiled at them. "Nice system." 

Tran tossed his head and answered, " Mariah and Dige help - helped - keep us in in the technological age." Almost grudgingly, he added, "You could come join us and help her, now that he's gone." 

"Maybe someday," Methos allowed. 

Mariah shook her head, her eyes glimmering. "Don't let him fool you, he knows as much about these machines as I do." 

Methos smiled at her. "Well, pardon me. I'm going to make some breakfast!" He kissed Grey's shoulder, then smoothly departed from the room. 

They talked for a few minutes more. Tran was once again uneasy about all the unknowns of Adam Pierson, particularly with this revelation about the Watchers. At one point he whispered, "If they kill members who reveal themselves to Immortals, what will they do to young Pierson if they find out he's an Immortal?" 

At Grey's exasperated sigh, Tran simply sighed back. He would try to resign himself to the fact that Grey was involved with someone whose life was dangerous and complicated. He did not attempt to get Grey to come home earlier, but his paranoia was palpable to both of his friends. Soon, they signed off. Grey deactivated his computer and closed it. For a time he simply sat, staring wistfully at the little marvel of technology. 

Methos did not disturb him until the pancakes were finished. Then he brought the plate of omelets and pancakes in and received a distracted smile for his troubles. He sat with his own plate and studied his fork. Finally, feeling slightly strained, he said, "You could move up your departure date." 

Grey grinned and pulled him close. Methos relaxed as Grey wrapped his arms around the older Immortal's chest and brushed noses. "No need. It's just the loss of Dige that makes me miss them so much. They've got each other. I would be odd-man-out, right now." 

After breakfast, they sparred in the cellar. Methos, since Grey knew who he was, rarely spared any quarter in their mock battles. Grey usually ended up on the floor. Though Methos was not as strong as Grey, he was incredibly fast and had a plethora of tricks up his sleeve. He was, with great enthusiasm, teaching the moves and countermoves to the other man. This time, though, Grey managed to disarm Methos. Then he stared at Methos with mock indignation. "You let me do that." 

Methos grinned back. "I just want you to feel you are doing well!" 

Grey rolled his eyes and groaned. "Not 'The Princess Bride' again!" He swung his arm and pointed imperiously towards Methos' sword. "Again, sir! And my pride be damned!" 

Obediently, the old Immortal swept up his sword, and they circled each other with playful wariness. This time when they clashed, it was with ferocious speed. The ring of steel on steel was like music and they danced in a perilous duet. Their ragged practice clothes gained new bloodstains from the small wounds they inflicted on each other. At last, Methos took Grey down, leaving the silver-haired man flat on his back. Methos stood over Grey and laid the flat of his fine blade alongside the downed man's throat. 

He shook his head. "I do hate to quote you. But you fight without conviction. That could kill you." 

Grey smiled up at him. "I find it difficult to try to hurt you with conviction." He stretched, arms spread out to their widest extension, arching his back and shifting his neck until it was pressed tightly against Methos' blade. He closed his eyes and then opened them only halfway, looking at Methos from under the lashes. 

Methos cleared his throat with an effort. "Promises, promises," he muttered. He bent down and slid his fingers through some of the rips in Grey's shirt to touch the skin beneath. "Shower, mine own. And today we shall see the Palace Gardens." 

"Shower with me, o aged one?" 

"But of course. How else will I get my back thoroughly scrubbed?" 

In this cool season the gardens were still beautiful. A layer of fallen leaves dampened the paths, and the birds sang in the trees. Tourists were relatively few at this time of year, so Methos and Grey essentially traveled in a world of their own. The gardens offered quiet places to think, to marvel at the living plant and stone sculptures that graced the grounds, and just to be together. The quiet of the last several days was about to be broken. 

It began with a presence that rippled through them, no different from any other Immortal presence. But they were not expecting this other, any more than she was expecting them. They saw each other from opposite sides of a pond. Grey had his usual first impression: she was a woman and she did not appear particularly threatening. He would have been content had nothing more happened than that she went her own way and did not demand a challenge. Then Methos reacted to her. 

The old one, relaxed and enjoying himself a moment before, folded in on himself. His entire being shrank and his face became pale and haunted. Grey frantically caught his shoulders and turned to take in as much as he could of the Immortal who caused this reaction. Her hair was long, thick and dark-auburn with fairer highlights. She had full lips, a wide forehead, a small nose and wide-set, burning dark eyes. Grey absorbed the impact of a gaze that combined agony and frustration, before the woman spun and stalked away on another path, disappearing around the bend. Grey dismissed her from his thoughts as Methos pulled away from him. Alarmed, Grey struggled to make sense of this reaction. The only times Methos ever pulled away were when he was ashamed, but Grey wanted answers, and he would not allow his partner to put up new walls between them now. He wrapped an arm tight around the other man's shoulders and took him around behind the nearest statue, pressing him down to sit on a cold granite bench. He wrapped both arms around the man in a tight embrace and slid his hands under the sweater and around Methos' torso to dig with fierce strength into the knots that had bent the proud back. Grey poured reassurance and a share of stability through his fingers and palms. Methos resisted at first, then he shuddered and responded, begging silently for more pressure. Grey held on as tightly as he could. 

"Tell me about it," Grey whispered softly. 

Methos pressed his head against Grey's chest, twisting his long fingers in Grey's scarf. "I am afraid to." 

Faintly amused despite the alarming situation, Grey asked, "What's the worst that could happen?" 

Methos gave a shuddering laugh. He pushed his head harder into Grey's chest and wrapped his arms around the man's waist. "She is about your age, Grey. And that was about how long ago it was that I found her." 

He drew back, bowing his head and taking a slow, deep breath. "I was with the others. We raided a small nomad tribe and slaughtered them. I found her body amongst the dead and took her back to our camp. I was quite pleased with my find. When she revived, I told her that she was alive at my pleasure and would live as long as she pleased me. I killed her again and again until she stopped fighting me. 

"She saw how the others treated their slaves. Worse than Silas' curs. When she obeyed me, I was gentle with her. She began to remake her world with me at its center. I was her god and lover. I gave her life and could take it away. As she turned to me, I lost interest in our other slaves. They were too fragile, they wouldn't last even a blink of my eye. But SHE would. I could have her forever; she would not rot. I could teach her the things I knew and share the centuries with her. I began to feel content. 

"That was my biggest mistake. Kronos and I had always sought each other's weaknesses. We were aligned together originally because we were so much more powerful than we could be alone. With Silas and Caspian, we were unbeatable. The scourge of mortals, a terror even for other Immortals. We stood together and so could not be defeated. But because I had Cassandra, the raids lost appeal for me. The spoils did not matter anymore. I had everything I needed in my tent. The others could have whatever we captured. I should have known better than to let it show." 

**The Bronze Age**

The sun was just beginning to set when they returned to camp. This raid had netted them several new slaves. The terrified young women would soon be obedient servants for as long as they lived. Kronos, riding ahead of Methos, announced cheerfully over his shoulder, "Another day well spent, Methos!" 

Methos felt no need to answer, particularly when he espied Cassandra walking toward his tent. The young woman glanced at the new slaves and moved around them, keeping a dignified distance befitting her position as a favorite. Methos allowed himself a pleased moment to admire her proud posture, the grace of her movement so different from that of the other slaves. 

Kronos' eyes narrowed as he followed Methos' gaze. Methos had been distant, of late. He had not shared in their after-raid games. Maybe it was not as bad as it seemed. As they dismounted, Kronos said, "Come, let's celebrate! Divide our bounty!" 

"You can have my share; I'm tired," Methos said dismissively. He lead his horse away, too interested in returning to his tents to pay attention to the weight of Kronos' cold, astonished gaze. 

Cassandra gave him a cup of wine as soon as he stepped into the tent. Though he did not say anything or even look directly at her, her smile warmed him. It lifted his aches and dispelled his odd sense of purposelessness about today's raid. He sat and sipped the wine. It was so pleasant and soothing that he was surprised. "It's good," he said, setting the cup down. 

"I cooled it in the river for you," she replied. Her voice was throaty, soft with warmth and tenderness. He reveled in it. She took a damp cloth and began to wipe his hands. "You rode far," she observed, noting the dust almost caked into his skin. 

He looked at his hands. His broad, square palms already felt better with her gentle ministrations. "Yes," he agreed. 

She moved the cloth to his face. First she brushed along the side of his face with no blue. The damp cloth cleared his skin and allowed the breeze in his tent to caress it even as Cassandra did. She swept the cloth over his lips in a silent request that opened them and woke his skin from its dirt-encrusted slumber. 

His exhaustion gave way to a sweet, clean hunger. He stared into her bottomless green eyes, and cupped her cheek in his palm, feeling the delightful softness of her hair on his fingertips. She leaned into the caress, closing her eyes and parting her lips. There were other ways than raids to feel alive, and he was about to act on one when the sense of another Immortal skittered across both of them. They looked towards the entrance as Kronos stepped through it. 

His eyes swept over them, over the contents of the tent. Methos met the dead, challenging gaze with a bland one of his own. Kronos' eyes flicked over to Cassandra, and Methos felt suddenly vulnerable. "My compliments, Brother. You taught her well in everything, I see." His tone was faintly mocking, laced with venom underneath its mild front. He stretched his arm down and picked a piece of fruit from one of the baskets. He turned it in his hands critically. Sounding almost amused, he said, "And it seems she keeps the best fruit for you." 

Methos felt trapped and exposed. He did not dare even swallow, doing his best not to let his feelings show. "It's no different from the rest." 

Kronos' smile was hard. He cocked his head. "Maybe it just tastes better in here. Made quite a prize of her, haven't you?" 

"She's no different from the others." Methos blessed his voice for sounding calm and indifferent. He did not let his eyes slip from Kronos', answering their challenge. 

However, Kronos clearly knew exactly what his target was. His eyes blazed at Methos in the twilight of the tent. "Except you seem to prefer her to all others. Why is that? Have you grown attached?" 

Methos stood. He tried to make his voice sound tight with anger, rather than weak with the frightful pain in his chest. "No." 

"Good. I didn't think you'd make a mistake like that, Brother. Because now it's time to share the spoils of war." 

Yes, their rules. Together they shared everything they won. Methos closed his protests beneath the strange pain that had captured him. He found that he had clenched his jaw so tightly the bones behind his ears hurt. He realized he should have prepared Cassandra before this. He should have taught her that she would inevitably be taken by each of them. Unfortunately, by the time it mattered to him, it was too late. She would just have to endure it. He would have her most of the time. He turned away, pretending as best he could to haughty indifference. 

Cassandra gaped after him, too stunned to say anything until Kronos' hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her to her feet. "No!" she protested, struggling to pull away from him. 

Kronos laughed. "Ah, you've left some spirit in her, Brother! I like that! After I finish, maybe I'll let Caspian have her!" 

Cassandra had seen what was left of Caspian's women after he had finished with them. She panicked, struggling. "No! Methos, please! No!" Kronos pulled her as she protested, out of the tent. It would be the last time Methos would hear her voice for three thousand years. She was calling his name, terrified and pleading with him. 

He managed not to turn in answer. He attempted to concentrate on the fruit he was peeling. He could not, and in the end he began slicing his own palm, trying to use the pain to drown out her cries and the irrational impulse that demanded that he do something to help her. 

**Present**

"Kronos had her for several hours before she stopped fighting him. Or so he thought. She stabbed him with his own dagger when he let his guard down, and fled into the night. I was the only one who heard him cry out. I saw her stumbling off into the desert. I would not go after her. I could not go with her." Methos stopped speaking, and looked hesitantly up at Grey, who had stilled his hands during Methos' narrative. 

Grey's eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he asked, "Why didn't she take his head?" 

"She did not know it was the only way to kill him." Methos winced as Grey's face twisted. 

Grey's hands renewed their steady pressuring along Methos' back. He asked idly, "Why couldn't you go with her?" 

"Because they would really have come after me. She was a slave, and a stranger. Not part of our pact." A small smile formed at the corners of his lips. Amusement seeped into his tone. "Besides, the look on Kronos' face when he finally revived and came roaring out of his tent hours later was just too good to be missed." 

Grey chuckled. "I can almost imagine." 

"I didn't see her again for three-thousand years. I did keep tabs on her when I joined the Watchers, but...." 

"But you two never resolved this past between you." 

"There's no way to do that except, for her, my death." 

Grey opened one eye and smiled slightly. "I would prefer not." He raised his head and inhaled deeply. "It is a bit chilly. Let's go back home." 

Methos woke again. Grey was still gone. He stared at the empty place beside him and felt hollow. Did Grey, like MacLeod, think Methos was still Death? No. He could not, could he? Methos sat up in bed and listened. There was no sound in the old building. No rustle of paper, no creak of footsteps. Grey had been lost in thought all evening, ever since Methos' story in the gardens, but he had kept close to Methos, his hand often touching with a reassuring grip. Methos held that memory and felt the hollow in his stomach shallow out. Grey had not left until after Methos was asleep, which meant he intended his absence to go unnoticed, at least for awhile. Not anger, and not disgust. Then...what? Suddenly, a new thought occurred. Would Grey have gone after Cassandra? Had Methos at last caused her death? Or worse yet, Grey's?! He broke out in a cold sweat. Oh, no. No, no, no. I don't want that on my conscience, he thought desperately. 

Shivering, he went to the kitchen and made tea. It's barely been a week, not counting all the days between when we first met and next talked... he thought. He dressed in one of his big, floppy 'Adam Pierson' sweaters and another pair of black jeans, added boots and kept his sword near him. If Grey did not return by morning, Methos would hack into the Watcher's database and see if there was any news. 

Around three in the morning, there was a knock on the door. Methos moved forward until he felt a double impact on his senses. It quickly blurred into the usual nerve-wracking hum of presence. He still knew there were two Immortals close to him, but they were all too close together to distinguish one from another by feel. He quickly flipped aside the old painting on the wall to get to the recessed television screen. Activated, it showed him the people at his door. Grey, unmistakable if ever anyone was. Beside him was Cassandra, equally unmistakable. Methos blinked several times, but the image on the screen persisted. Grey had brought Cassandra right to his carefully-maintained, secret-for-decades doorstep. Run, fight, something! Methos drew a breath and calmed himself. His practiced eye took in the way both of them listed. There had been some heavy drinking going on. He tightened his lips on a strained laugh and shut off the screen, closing it back into hiding. 

Grey knocked again. Methos wondered, suddenly, if it were not that Grey had some perverse urge to boggle his mind. Of all the possibilities for where Grey had gone and what he intended to do, THIS was the LAST thing that Methos would even have dreamed of. His sword held ready but inconspicuously behind his back, he went and opened the door. His visitors both stared at him with the overbright eyes of people whose adrenaline was struggling to compensate for the soporific effects of too much alcohol. He caught a whiff of whiskey. If he had not been so confused and alarmed, he might have laughed. Millenia of experience with sounding perfectly normal came to his aid. "Aaah, coffee?" he inquired at last. 

"Sleep," Grey announced. "You're taking us to see the sights in the afternoon." 

Cassandra nodded, adding, "I have not toured Paris since before World War II." 

Despite the alcohol, they both spoke fairly clearly. They looked steadier on their feet than they had on the screen. If they stayed awake much longer, their bodies might heal the alcohol poisoning enough to avoid a hangover. Methos decided on petty revenge. "Right. I'll just put you two to bed, shall I?" He sighed to himself as they dissolved into giggles. Wonderful, he thought. When she wakes, the hangover might distract her from wanting to kill me. He had avoided Cassandra ever since he knew where she was for just that reason. He did not want to have to kill her to protect himself. Damn it, Grey! Why did you bring her here? 

He dropped Grey in their bedroom and settled Cassandra in the guest room. He toyed for a long moment with letting her wake up as uncomfortably as possible. That would hardly improve matters. With a weary sigh, he began removing her boots. He stared at the graceful, nylon-clad feet in his hands, unable to block the memories of their past. She was ticklish upon the soles of her feet. He had discovered that and been surprised by the spirit of playfulness it aroused in him. Her skin was softer than the nylons she wore. He shook his head again, released her feet and gingerly slipped her coat off. He settled the covers tenderly around her shoulders. The styles of the present looked good on her, accentuating her beauty. There was no Byron here to egg him on to take advantage of her helplessness. Unbidden, he traced the line of her high cheekbones and felt tears threaten. I cost you so much, little one. Forgive me. 

He went to see to Grey, who opened his eyes the moment Methos came into the room. Grey's eyes met his, filled with warmth and admiration. They swept along his face, and he felt that gaze like an intimate touch. Methos closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When did he gain the power to do this to me? he wondered. For Grey had proved capable of making Methos forget his stress with a look, just as well as with a tender touch. 

His anger banished, at least for the moment, Methos opened his eyes and knelt at the edge of the bed to stare into Grey's eyes. "I think you are Loki. Or perhaps Coyote." 

Grey turned slightly and traced his fingers along Methos' lower lip. Eyes shining, he said, "I, the Trickster? The Father of Lies?" 

Methos chuckled. "Now YOU are mixing your ancient gods. You, the mischief-maker. Father of Chaos, perhaps. Are you sober enough to tell me how it happened that the two of you came here?" 

Grey grinned sleepily and began to explain. 

Among the many little things Grey and Methos did not know that they had in common, was a fondness for watching their partners sleep. This night it was Grey who did the watching, studying the sleeping face with interest. Curiosity killed the cat, but he could not stop wondering about Methos' origins. Sometimes, the man looked as though he was barely twenty. Other times, when he was troubled, Grey might have placed him in his mid-thirties. He liked horses. That was good. But he was Methos. That was not bad, but now Grey had to admit that it would put Tran in danger. When Grey first learned who Adam Pierson really was, he had thought it safe to risk Tran's finding out, too. Methos, though, had at least as many tricks up his sleeve as Tran did, and Grey now had the added experience of losing to him. The only answer that presented itself was to change Tran's mind about Methos. Then Grey could bring Methos home. The key, he was beginning to feel, was this Cassandra. She had even more reason to hate Methos than Tran did and was almost as old. If Grey could change HER mind, then perhaps he could change Tran's. First though, he would have to reach her and talk to her. 

He eased out of bed and dressed warmly. Always a creature of impulse, he was outside before he even considered about how he would find her. Humming to himself, he began singing softly. "All is lost, where was I? Spoiled all." He stopped and shook his head. I hope that's not prescience, he thought. The night air was bracing. Was Paris always such a cold city? Or did the weather echo with Methos' memories? Methos had been a creature of ice, his only joy battle and the terror of his victims. Grey wondered how, and when, Methos had changed. 

How to find Cassandra? There were ways he had not used in centuries. The techniques remained in his memories. Grey slipped out into the courtyard and stood next to the empty fountain. He closed his eyes and settled himself into stillness, his mind slowing its usual whirl until the world around him stood out against his inner eye like a 3-D picture. The night wind came up and blew him out of himself. 

When he first turned to the task of listening for other Immortals, he had expected to be bowled over by Methos' presence. Instead, he could not identify it. Then he recognized Methos more by his proximity than anything else. Methos' signature read like a youngster's until Grey took a longer look. That bright core was almost silent, like water lapping against the shore on a still day. Shadow levels were barely sensable. Those levels that the Immortal who had taught Tran and Grey this sensing technique said marked the centuries. It was like standing near the middle of a deep, dark pool. The shells seemed to continue on forever and Grey did not doubt that if he could count them he would find at least fifty. 

Grey came out of it, feeling his knees tremble. He sat down. He had forgotten how exhausting this was. Of course Methos was different. A Quickening of that longevity would draw any Immortal without their knowing why they were coming. Methos' stillness prevented that. He held his power in his core and did not let it brighten his outer levels. However, this action cost the old man his fire. Grey wondered if Methos' Quickening was different when they made love. He doubted it. Methos gave in too easily to physical hunger. He kept control of himself by not bothering to restrain himself. Grey forcibly drew his mind away from thoughts of how to drive Methos out of control and back to the matter of finding Cassandra. 

He once again set his mind to listening for other Quickenings. One thing about Methos' stillness, he did not distract as Tran did. Grey factored out Methos' nearby presence and focused outward. There was a shimmer of reaction. Slowly, across Paris, other Quickenings flickered in response to his scan. Two stank of death and hate. He doubted either was Cassandra; when their eyes had met he had seen that she was sane. Three or four were youthful; probably not a century old. It was funny how he could not tell, normally. One Quickening called to him with familiarity. Duncan MacLeod, all light and spinning movement through his mere four levels. The erratic tendrils of recently absorbed Quickenings waved at Grey for attention. 

He had to come out of it again. He took two steps before he managed to stop his instinctive reaction. This was not because of Dige's death. This was because MacLeod was active, alert and challenging. He should have found Cassandra by now. Unless she had left Paris? He rubbed at the pounding between his eyes. Think. She was frustrated, angry. Not insane, but perhaps wishing for the oblivion of insanity. Once more into the breach. He smiled to himself and settled down again. 

There they were, all of them. The two mad ones had shifted, probably heading in this general direction without a clue as to why. They would be distracted in their travels by Duncan MacLeod, who was in between them and Grey. The young ones had not stirred. They lacked the sensitivity for such a quick response. MacLeod had not stirred, either. He was not a person who sought fights. Indeed, he did not have to. His challengers usually came to him. Grey ignored them all and a few others that stirred slightly. THERE! 

It had to be her. This one was almost consciously aware of his probe and slapped at it as though it were a fly. She radiated irritation and a quiet self-disgust. The frustration he had seen earlier was plain. Where are you? he thought. 

Who are you? she returned. 

The question had not been made consciously. She might be wondering why she had thought it. Still, it stunned Grey out of his search-trance. Methos had said Cassandra was Grey's age, but it had never occurred to Grey that she might have power. Perhaps he should have thought of it himself, though. Power to wake the heart in an Immortal who had thought he did not have one. Tran had such power, too. 

All right. He opened his eyes and got to his feet. All right. I know which way to go. All that remained was to get a taxi. 

The taxi-driver was a mustachioed, swarthy gentleman in his early forties. He drove, whistling happily as he made plans for the wad of money his passenger had given him. The young man had said, "I don't know where I'm going, but it's south. I'll know when we get close." 

In the end, they had to backtrack twice. Then they pulled up in front of an inn. Grey took note of the regal, old building. Now that he was close, he felt nervous. A hell of a risk if this doesn't work, he thought. "Would you wait a couple of hours, just in case?" he asked the driver. 

"Of course, monsieur." On the money Grey had given him, he could wait weeks. 

Grey slipped past the sleepy clerk and began wandering the halls. He finally sensed her on the third floor. At least, he was as sure as he could be that this was her. He stood nervously in the hallways, trying to decide what to do, now. 

A door opened farther down the hall and she looked out toward him. "Go away," she said. 

There was something in her voice, something he had heard in only one other person's. As she vanished back into her room, he found his feet had turned and he was walking away. He locked his knees and breathed slowly until the compulsion faded. Turning back, he walked to her door and knocked three times. 

There was a moment of silence before she said with exasperation, "Who is it?" 

Grey loved these kind of questions. "It's Grey!" he said cheerfully. 

The silence lasted perhaps three heartbeats. "What is it?" she finally asked. 

Grey was suddenly reminded of a scene he saw while flipping channels late one night; a man standing outside a woman's door saying something like: "Well, it looks like a door; and it's closed." 

The silence lasted longer this time. He could imagine her staring at the door, trying to decide if she wanted to open it or try her powers again. It seemed she chose neither. Her low voice had softened with amusement, though. "What do you want?" 

"I want to do the impossible." 

The wait was not so long. She opened her door and had her blade at his throat. She was not threatening him, though. She was just being careful. In the light from her room she could see his face clearly. She was startled. For a moment she froze, as if unable to decide what he represented. Then she said, "Oh, it's you." 

"I said it was me," he replied cheerfully. 

She stared at him, obviously trying to decide if he was a lunatic or not. He returned her gaze with sudden solemnity. At last she withdrew her sword from his neck and moved out of the doorway. "Take off your coat and give it to me." Grey obeyed, feeling his flesh crawl as she placed his coat across the room, his weapons out of reach. If she did decide to attack him, he would be in the fight of his life. She indicated a plush chair. He sat down, clasping his hands between his knees and cocking his head to look at her as she sat in the chair opposite him. She surprised him by saying, "I suppose you've come to ask what that was all about, this afternoon." 

He blinked and drew a deep breath. "Not really. He told me how he first found you. He did not spare himself in his narrative." 

She gazed at him, steadily. Finally, she said, "Is this the impossible thing you want to do; get me to forgive him? He obviously did not tell you what happened the last time we met. I could have taken his head." 

Grey felt a shock of astonishment. He studied her expression intently, but saw neither self-aggrandizement nor irrationality. His stomach knotted in sudden fear. "You're that good?" 

"He would have let me." 

The finality of her words was terrifying. Grey felt cold as he stared at her. His dismay clearly did not give her pleasure. She met his eyes firmly. He cleared his throat. "I challenged him when I met him. This was before I knew he was Methos. I won. He didn't try to win, he barely tried to protect himself. I thought it was because he was young and... and worn by the Game." Grey shook his head. "Later, he told me he was depressed because he had taken the head of someone who had once been his friend." 

Cassandra sat motionless for a time before nodding her head, solemnly. "He took Silas' head. Silas was about to take mine, and Methos challenged him." 

Grey measured the import of her words. "Is that why you didn't take his head?" 

"No." She spoke coldly. Her eyes, made to seem dark by artfully applied makeup and the size of her pupils, shone with something that was not quite tears. "Duncan ordered me not to. He could not have stopped me. But he said he wanted Methos to live. He meant it, despite what Methos had done to me. Despite the fact that he had gone with Kronos. Despite everything." 

Grey lowered his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He had come with too little knowledge, that was clear. For a moment, the task he had set himself loomed impossible before him. Still, he had come all the way here and she seemed willing to listen. If so, he would have a chance to change her mind. He said quietly, "You and I have a great deal in common." 

She raised her eyebrows and studied him for a long moment. "We've both been bedded by Methos?" 

He laughed in spite of himself. "I don't suppose you have any really strong liquor?" he asked, hopefully. 

She eyed him warily, but a faint smile tugged at the edges of her lips. Finally she got up and headed into the kitchen, keeping her sword conspicuously sheathed. She scooped up his coat on the way. She returned with a fair-sized bottle of whiskey and two thick mugs. She had left Grey's sword and coat in the kitchen. Grey took the bottle and poured for them both. Cassandra laughed wryly when he downed his in practically one gulp. He refilled the mug and clasped it between his palms. They stared at each other over the rims of their mugs. 

Among Grey's many personal policies was the one which went: if you aren't sure how to begin, just plunge straight in. "Lady Cassandra," he began, resorting to an older style of formality that had always agreed with him. "We have very different histories. However I, as you, had my life most unpleasantly torn apart by the first Immortal who found me. And I have never, in all my three-thousand years, hated anyone as much as I hated him." 

The memories rose to the forefront of his mind. He closed his eyes on the vision of a land of stark beauty. The forests stretched far in every direction. The tribes were few and far between. Nevertheless, they often went to war over almost any pretext. Grazing land, clean water, a good hunting ground. Before Grey woke Immortal, his tribe was like all the others. 

"We all thought I was a god. Why wouldn't we? They worshipped me, and I led them to victories. We began enslaving the tribes we defeated. I... did not like women or children for my bed. So instead of giving me the beautiful women of conquered tribes, they gave me the defeated leaders." Grey choked for a moment, as numerous faces rose behind his eyes. He drew a breath and continued his tale. 

**700 BCE: Great Britain, area presently known as Lake District**

His tribe controlled all the land between and around the lakes. Though they grew fat and lazy, they kept to all the old rituals. Grey was their head priest. He presided over the sacrifices and ceremonies to make sure the traditional forms were followed. 

When he was still young, before he understood that he was immortal, he had cared about the strong, defeated men given to him. He had turned their despair into worship and tested his strength in bed against men who were even bigger than he was. After the first generation passed away, though, Grey had stopped caring. Let the defeated be broken. Then he would see no appeal in them and it would not hurt him when they died. 

That particular day, the guards brought him three naked men. These men were the leaders of a group who had rebelled against his people. Their chins, freshly shaved to denote their status as slaves, shone pink in the afternoon sun. Un-men. Their eyes widened with hate and fear when Grey strode towards them. He himself had a long, luxurious silver, black and white beard. His hair swept down past his waist, braided to keep it under control. The guards, too, sported their own thick, brown or black beards. 

The guards forced the first man to kneel, holding him for Grey. As Grey stepped forward, he heard the soft swish of an arrow. He looked down in startlement at the feathers which suddenly seemed to blossom from his chest, before he toppled over. He came back to life in agony and snarling, yanked the arrow from his chest with numbed fingers. As he got to his feet, the prisoners shrank away in abject terror. The guards reported that their men who had gone searching for the marksmen had found nothing. Grey shrugged and nodded. Then he turned back to the business of his prisoners. As he stepped forward again and laid his hands on one man's hips, shattering pain drove him into blackness. 

This time the guards had to pull the arrow out. It had driven deep into his back, right next to his spine. Infuriated, Grey took a guard's dagger and stabbed it again and again into the nearest prisoner's back. When his berserk fury passed, he turned to look at the other two. He stalked forward as the guards positioned the next man for him. 

An arrow struck him in the ribs. Just as he reached to remove it, his head exploded with pain and the blackness swallowed him again. 

When he woke, the guards handed him the four arrows. The fourth one had, it seemed, been fired into Grey's ear. Grey listened fuzzily to the guards' report. Evening had come while he was senseless, and the guards had lit several torches. After all that had happened, he did not feel like taming any prisoners. "Kill them," he finally said. 

He retreated into the temple. Surrounded by the stone and sod walls, he was at last able to admit to himself that he was frightened. "I am a god!" he whispered, lying curled amongst his sleeping furs. He had finally told the guards to keep everyone out of his quarters and to watch for any suspicious people. Then he lay down and tried to sleep. 

Sleep would not come easily, though. When he finally did close his eyes he woke again, often. Then he woke in a panic, his head and heart pounding. 

"Be silent and still," came a voice from the darkness. Grey found he could not speak or move. He tried, but his limbs would not obey him. For all the ache in his head and the scream in his heart, his muscles remained loose and flaccid. For the first time in his life, he was in sheer terror. At last, the voice spoke again. "Come." 

Grey found himself on his feet, naked and trailing behind a small, human-shaped shadow out of his quarters. The guards were nowhere to be seen. He could not even turn his head to look for them. He followed the shadow out into the forest, where a horse and two dogs awaited like night shadows. The shadow-man mounted the horse and rode, setting a rather swift pace. Grey broke into a run to keep up, fighting ineffectively at the immaterial leash that bound him. 

Eventually, the sun rose. Then the shadow-boy stopped in a clearing. In the morning light, Grey could see him clearly. He looked like a child. He had long, black hair. His eyes, when he turned to look at Grey, were blacker than the night they had left behind. His skin was a strange color; yellowish. His face was very strange. Suddenly, he released Grey. 

Grey doubled over, his muscles screaming protests at him for being used through the night without rest. A groan of pain escaped him despite his efforts to hold it in. With a snarl, he uncurled and leaped at the small demon. It somehow escaped his clutching fingers. "Stay," it commanded. Grey lay where he had fallen, flat on his stomach on the damp grass. The demon touched his shoulders and he could do nothing, not even flinch in revulsion. It commented, "You are very strong. It is a pity your people are not." 

Grey found that he could speak. "My people ARE strong! We rule!" 

"Not for long. Only those near you who know as little as you do. There are other tribes who know much more. Left as they are, your people will provoke the others and be annihilated." 

This concept was even more alien to Grey than the small demon who controlled him. "They will never be defeated as long as they have me!" 

"They have you no longer if I choose to keep you, or kill you." 

"Demon! You can't kill me! Nothing can kill me!" 

The demon made no answer. Then a cold, sharp edge touched Grey's neck and pressed in. Pain slithered and weakness grew. The familiar blackness of temporary death circled into Grey's vision. Something felt different than before, though he was not sure what. Then he was lost in darkness. 

He woke with the stench of blood in his nostrils. His neck felt as though something cold still touched it. A necklace far too tight around his neck. He found that he could move and brought his hand up to check the necklace. His hand touched skin. Then he felt a ridge underneath. Panicking, he scrambled to his feet, clawing at the ridge that he could barely feel with his fingers. Pain shrieked through him as he tore at his flesh and, after a while, hooked a thin chain with his fingers. 

"Stop." 

The command came at the most horrifying moment. Grey's finger was between the metal and his flesh. He could feel the slow shocks as his skin tried to heal around the obstruction. 

"Put your hand down." 

He obeyed and stood still, not knowing what else to do. His skin healed, but he could still feel the choking sensation from the cold metal within his neck. 

"How long have you been their god?" 

The question confused him. There had been no count, at first. No, wait. When he was about twice as old as when he had died and first came back to life.... "About two hundred and fifty years." 

"Were you born amongst them?" 

"Yes." He tried to clamp his lips shut, will himself not to answer. Nothing worked. There was nothing he could do. 

"Have your people changed in all that time?" 

Grey snorted. "Of course not. We're not weak and forgetful, like other tribes. I make sure they remember who they are." 

"You make sure they remain as they were. You are killing them." The demon paced into his field of vision and tilted its head up to look into Grey's wide eyes. "You are no god. If I remove your head, you will never wake again." The creature wore no expression on its face. It eyes were as black and blank as a pool of stagnant water. It did not even blink as it said, "But then you could not be of use to me, could you? I offer you a choice: serve me. Change or die." 

Grey's breath came in short, ragged gasps. He thought quickly of how impossible it seemed to be to get away. He had never fled from anything in his whole life, yet this small demon terrified him. He could fake this and wait to escape later. He mustered his courage and rage. Finally, he spat out; "I'll serve you, curse you!" 

"You haven't the authority." 

The demon took Grey farther away from his home, out into the unending forests. By the time night fell again, they had come upon an isolated ring of stones with it's flat alter. The demon made Grey lie on his back on the alter. Then it brought out a sharp, obsidian blade. With infinite care, it began to remove Grey's hair. Paralyzed, he felt the night air on his newly-bared skin. The knife moved with sure, steady strokes until all his hair was gone. Then it slid down. Panic, held at bay before, reigned supreme as the knife wielder began to remove his beard. The hair had been acceptable, but THIS was evil personified! With each stroke of the knife, Grey felt his strength drain away. He felt himself becoming simpler, like a child. He could hear soft wails springing from his throat, for the demon had not ordered him silent. When it was over and his chin was clean of hair, Grey stared emptily at the demon. 

The demon stared back at him, calm and sure of itself. He, who felt the metal in his throat more distinctly when he swallowed, now knew he had no strength, no wit to fight this thing which had taken him. 

**Cassandra's Suite**

Cassandra's hand closed over Grey's hand and pushed it down. Grey realized he had been compulsively stroking his chin. He shook his head to clear the remembered revulsion and horror. Brought back to the present, he gazed desperately into her eyes. "Lady Cassandra, I know it is not like what Methos did to you," he began. 

She cut him off angrily. "No, you know it is in essence exactly like what he did to me. I don't want to hear more." 

"Lady, please!" 

"Why is this so important to you?" 

"I...." Grey closed his eyes, frustrated. He drew a steadying breath. "I want more of him. I've barely known him a week and a half, yet he is undeniably precious to me. Next week I go home. I can't...." Frustrated, he stood up and paced the length of the room. He did not want to explain about Tran's connection with Methos. He needed a truth just as good. He dropped into the chair across from Cassandra again. "He regrets what he did to you. That regret, along with taking Silas' head, is eating at him. Just as your pain is eating at you! Please, come and get to know him as he is, now. Please?" 

She stared back at him, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear tears from them. "Do you know how I found him after three-thousand years?" She finished her mug of whisky as Grey shook his head, no. "My turn to tell, then." 

**About 2 Months Earlier, New York International Airport**

Cassandra waited for her connecting flight. She was almost completely absorbed in the The Wall Street Journal stock reports when a familiar name caught her attention. She listened as the announcement was repeated. "Flight 198, for Seacouver, now boarding passengers with infants and small children." 

Seacouver, the city where Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod made his home. Her thoughts drifted back to the first time she had met him, when he was a child of twelve. Dark haired and sweet-eyed, with an already-developed strong sense of fairness. She had an inkling then of the kind of Immortal he could mature to be. All her powers had not prepared her for the reality of him when she had at last met him as an adult, and a fully-realized Immortal. He was so much younger than she was, yet he had an innate wisdom that could not be learned, but could only grow from a good soul. He was beautiful, the promise of his childhood fulfilled in dark, lazy eyes. Graceful and swift as a tsunami. Tender and loving, willing to absorb himself completely in his bed-mate's body. She smiled reminiscently. Then she rubbed her cheek to hide the involuntary twitch as she sensed another Immortal. 

She did not glance around. Her seat in the corner gave her a vantage point to observe her surroundings. Pretending to be reading her magazine, she watched for the other to reveal him or herself. He was in the ticket line for the Seacouver flight, waiting to get his seat assignment. A man of average height, with short, dark hair. He swung in a slow circle, sharp eyes scanning the other passengers. 

She almost did not recognize him. Then she saw the scar sweeping down across his right eye from his forehead. It proclaimed his identity and brought the rest of his features into clear memory. Cassandra pretended that the intent frown she had on her face was because of the article she was reading. His eyes swept over her. Yes, he had no reason to recognize her. Her hair was straight these days, not in the curls of her youth. Three thousand years had passed, too. He had surely raped countless women over the millennia. 

There was only one way to go with Kronos. On the offensive. Thus Cassandra appropriated a ticket from a businesswoman travelling alone. She used her Voice, the power which allowed her to control others, and boarded Flight 198. When she sat next to Kronos and idly brushed an imagined fleck of dust from her boots, he recognized her. The slow widening of his eyes was a pleasure to witness. Kronos alone was not much of a problem. Without his dogs, he was vulnerable. She knew it, and so did he. 

They did not speak to each other. They did not speak to anyone else except to buy drinks from the stewardesses during the flight. Though outwardly both seemed at ease, inwardly they seethed. The stewardesses would never connect the crying children, the snappiness of their passengers or their own nervousness with this innocent couple. 

By the end of the flight, Kronos had taken to slicing the back of the chair in front of him with a Bowie knife, his eyes wide and wild. The stewardesses had only once tried to confront him on it. Afterwards they kept far away and simply prayed he was not continuing on this plane from Seacouver. Cassandra had brought out a string and spent the last hour playing cat's cradle and glancing innocently at Kronos' neck every time she changed the cradle. Calm as she managed to appear, rage had been building since the moment she saw him in New York. Three thousand years of memories that should have buried what had happened when she was a mere infant Immortal, were not enough. After they disembarked, both left the airport, their baggage unclaimed. Cassandra pursued Kronos into Seacouver. She lost him near the sulfur-processing plant, when she ran into Duncan. Several hours later, in MacLeod's dojo, she came into the second greatest shock of her long life. 

Methos. It took a brief instant for her mind to add long, ratty hair. For her to connect this pale face with the one of her memory. It was the eyes that gave him away completely. When he saw her, they widened for a moment with surprise, then became bland and innocent. 

He and Duncan were standing close together as though consulting each other. Methos, who stared at her blankly when she stalked toward him, who asked Duncan curiously, "Who's this?" 

If he had been anyone else - say, Silas - she might have been slowed down. As it was, she knew better and drew her blade to challenge. "Draw your sword!" 

Methos dove behind Duncan, looking terrifyingly young and innocently bewildered. "MacLeod, who IS she?" 

Poor, confused Duncan. Fooled by the devil himself. He held his hands out to stop her. "Cassandra, what are you doing?" 

He was no longer her ally, but an obstruction. "Stay out of this, MacLeod!" 

Methos was on the opposite side of the exercise equipment. He shook his head, giving her a frightened, yet bravely defiant glare. He said firmly though breathlessly, "You don't know me." 

Outraged, she struggled to get past Duncan. "Do you think I could EVER forget you?!" 

She explained, while Methos shivered on the other side of MacLeod and shook his head wildly. She explained how she had woken from her first death, suffocating in Methos' spoils-bag. How he had shown her the skulls of her people in response to her desperate questions. How the distraction of stopping Silas and Caspian fighting like dogs only delayed the inevitable rape and torture. How he had killed her again and again until she lost the will to fight him. 

She could taste his fear in the air as he said desperately, "This is crazy! It wasn't me, MacLeod!" She lunged for him and he sprang away, shouting desperately, "DO something!" 

She was furious with him for invoking MacLeod. "This is between you and ME, Methos!!" 

As she lunged for him again, Duncan caught her and pinned her arms against her sides. He shouted to Methos, "Get out of here, now! Go, go!" 

Outraged, Cassandra snapped, "Let go of me!" She wrenched her body, trying to get loose to chase after the long-legged monster that vanished through the doors like a wraith. 

"Only until you calm down, okay?" Duncan pleaded with her. 

She had learned from the best. She immediately relaxed and drew a deep breath. "Okay." Duncan let her go and she tore through the doors herself. He did not try to follow her. She realized quickly that Methos was nowhere to be seen nor sensed. There was no way for her to find him. Furious, she came back into the room to confront the bewildered, innocent Duncan. Her anger overrode her affection for him. "He's gone. You had NO RIGHT to interfere!" 

Duncan stiffened and said indignantly, "He didn't even know you!" 

She winced and glared at him. "He's a liar! Don't come between us again!" 

As she whirled to leave the dojo, Duncan said desperately, "Cassandra, he's my friend!" 

The adrenaline rush beginning to die down, she turned back to stare straight into those too-innocent eyes, full of a world of hurt and bewilderment. She hated to break his heart, but she knew the creature that had left this room. She had seen Methos pretend to be trustworthy before. "Your 'friend' rode with Kronos. Killed and raped alongside him. He WAS one of the Horsemen." 

She left the dojo and hunted Kronos, instead. While they were on the plane together, she had become quite familiar with the sense of his presence. He was stationary, so she was able to find him several hours later. She came into the abandoned warehouse as silently as she could, sneaking to the upper level where she knew he was. 

He sat on the edge of a table, reading a book with almost casual interest. When he sensed her, he did not turn around but raised his head. "I hope you brought me his sword." 

Cassandra was shaken, realizing Kronos must have been expecting Methos. The fact that the two had finally found each other raised anew her horror. Still, she kept her voice calm. "I brought mine. It's all I need." 

Kronos started. He stood up from the table, gathering his sword from its place beside him. He came to meet her with rapid, light strides. He studied her insolently and mocked, "You look different, somehow. Maybe it's because you're on your feet, for a change, instead of your back." He laughed, finding himself amusing. 

She had not thought she could loathe him more. Her lips curled in contempt. "Centuries pass. Nations come and go. YOU remain the same." 

"I try," he replied demurely. He cocked his head, quizzically. "Did you come here for me? I'm afraid Methos is busy. He's out killing MacLeod." She saw no point in answering him, as they circled each other carefully. Kronos, having joined Methos, was very smug. He balanced on the balls of his feet. "Let's see if you've learnt anything in the last three thousand years." 

Obliging him, Cassandra mustered her special talents. She felt the familiar drop in her gut as her powers engaged, and her voice rolled out toward her enemy, rippling with power. "You're weak, Kronos. Tired. All you want to do is close your eyes. You have to close your eyes." 

Kronos looked faintly surprised, but he said softly, "Why? So you can kiss me?" 

It was her turn to be surprised, but she channeled more of her strength into the effort. "Your sword grows heavy." 

Kronos smiled. "Make love to me before I kill you!" He flicked his sword mockingly. "And cut out the feeble tricks. They won't work on me." 

Of course not, or someone would have used such a method to kill him long ago. "Hmm. Well maybe this will!" she snapped, and lunged for him. 

They clashed, the swords humming with the strength of their bearers. They spun around each other, across the room and Kronos leaped clear of Cassandra's sword as it came too close to his abdomen. He rushed in again and after a few strikes knocked her sword from her hands. 

He stalked after her as she backed rapidly away. His voice was hungry. "Methos never liked the idea of killing you. But I do!" 

As he closed on her, she glanced rapidly around for some kind of weapon. Next to her was a pressure valve and she pulled down the lever, giving Kronos a face-full of steam. While he was blinded, Cassandra dove for the ladder to the floor and quickly fled down it. As she reached the bottom, she felt the resounding impact of a presence. How did he get down here so quickly? She turned, seeing daylight across the warehouse and started for it. There was a flash of movement from the shadows and something hard slammed into her jaw. It drove her head back and sent her sinking into darkness. 

When she opened her eyes, she found herself gazing down into black waters below. It was a struggle to lift her head but she did, and found she was held in Methos arms. He had dropped his act, and the eyes that met hers were as dead and cold as she remembered them. Methos was holding her over the yellow railing of a bridge. She managed to say feebly, "You should have killed me when you had the chance." The expression in his eyes did not change. Then his supporting arms fell away and she closed her eyes. As she plunged down, she remembered a time when she had thought that the coldness was a mask. Until Kronos had taken her without a single protest from Methos. It was then that she had realized that she had it backwards. The gentleness was the mask. The coldness was the man. Then the icy water broke around her and swallowed her into blackest darkness. 

**Cassandra's**

"And now?" Grey asked cautiously. As he waited for her to answer, he poured himself another mug of whiskey. 

"Now." Cassandra hugged herself, her face troubled. "He had always been different from the others. Otherwise I would have taken his head no matter what Duncan said. After that, I could think about what he did, and what he said. I could consider believing that now he is different than himself, too." 

Grey nodded. He drank half of his whiskey before he felt ready to counter her history. He drew a breath and said, "A century." 

"What about a century?" she asked obligingly. 

"It took about that long, for my relationship with my captor to change." 

Cassandra sighed and tapped the edge of her mug. Grey poured more whiskey into it. The woman settled herself comfortably in her chair. "Go ahead." 

**600 BCE, The capital city of Egypt**

For almost all of the first year he had been unable to sleep soundly. The cord in his neck was an ever-present source of terror. His senses could not seem to become deadened to its presence. He had been in a constant sweat, his heart always beating rapidly, until the demon had sat him down and taught him to breathe long, low and deep to control his fear. The demon split the night-watch with him, but commanded that it not be disturbed while it slept unless there was an external danger. Thus, when he heard the demon crying or sometimes screaming in the night, he could not investigate. He liked to imagine that the demon was under attack as it lay in bed, and it did not want to be distracted in its battles. Eventually, he stopped calling the boy a demon. He in all honesty doubted that demons wept. He began calling the boy 'master'. 

The master never bothered to ask his name. Indeed, never called him anything. If they were with other people, he simply knew when the master wanted him. After a while he held his name in his heart, and wondered if he would ever hear it again. 

The master taught him to protect himself, not wanting to waste his servant. But never how to kill another of their kind. 

In a century of wandering, they had rarely gone into any large population centers. They traveled through smaller settlements, with the master playing servant in their dealings with other people. The silver haired man had been conditioned to respond negatively to anyone who offered to buy his servant's services, no matter what they wanted him for. The master was neither kind nor cruel. He allowed the man to ride and let him choose his own food. However, every time his beard reached a finger-length, the master shaved it. He wondered if he would ever feel like a man again. 

Decades later they encountered a vicious stranger whose presence brought the same aching sense of alarm that the master's did. The silver-haired man witnessed fighting the likes of which he had never imagined. His master many times seemed to take flight, springing out of the reach of the stranger until he was so angry, he forgot to protect his neck. Then the master used his two, long daggers and the stranger lost his head. The silver-haired man then witnessed something he had only heard of in his tribe's legends. The stranger's soul left his body and tried to take over the master's. And though the pain of this attack drew screams from the master, it was he who won the battle. The man, having no idea what else to do, gathered his master in his arms and brought him back to their camp. He held his master near the fire until the trembling stopped and the master fell asleep. 

When the master woke, he made his servant sit down next to the fire, and told him about Immortals and Quickenings. He told him that death would only be permanent if the head was removed from their bodies. The man listened and accepted what he was told, his fingers unconsciously twitching to brush the skin covering the metal around his neck. 

It was only a few days afterwards that they changed course and entered the capital city of Egypt. For the first time, the master headed willingly into the hustle and bustle of a city of thousands. For the first time, the servant saw what a lively trade city was like. He could not get enough of it. His astonishment was strong enough to distract him from his underlying terror, and he kept stopping to gaze in rapt amazement around him. The natives were beautiful. A dark-skinned people who wore woven clothing rather than furs. Their eyes were decorated to look like cats' eyes. The man found himself catching more than one pair of flirtatious eyes. Both women and men noticed him, but only the stronger men attracted the servant's attention in return. The monuments stopped him. The murals stopped him. The market stopped him to stand gaping about. He even forgot his master until as he turned he happened to look straight at the not-boy. 

The master looked like the child he must once have been. His eyes on his servant were laughing and affectionate. His mouth smiled for the first time the servant could remember. Confused, the man quickly continued his perusal of the market. He was too startled to lose himself in the observation again. When they were finally settled in an inn on the outskirts of the city, the astonishing plumbing almost diverted him entirely from the incident that had amazed him so. He came back to it, though. The affectionate expression filled his thoughts as he unpacked their bedding and arranged their room for the night. 

The master went somewhere. He soon returned with an elongated bundle under his arm. He glanced around their room with a peculiar expression in his eyes, his face as blank as ever. Then he turned the full force of his attention on his kneeling servant. The man hated it when the master did that. It always made the cord around his neck seem to be tighter. 

"It is over," the master said calmly. 

The servant blinked and stared at him. The master picked up a dagger, a bowl and a sponge from their luggage, then walked purposefully towards his servant, whose heart felt as though it had stopped. "M-master, are you going to kill me..?" He stared hopelessly up at his master. 

The dark eyes shone sadly at him. "No." 

And the master touched his neck, and the servant plunged into darkness. 

He opened his eyes. He lay comfortably on his pallet. Something had changed. Confused, he sat up quickly. "Master?!" 

"Here." Next to him, sitting cross-legged and watching him steadily. 

Suddenly, he realized what was different. The chain that had been ever present in his neck... was gone. He looked around in confusion, but nothing like it seemed to be anywhere around him. 

"You are free," his master said gently. "There are a few of us in this city. Go find a teacher." 

He stared, wide-eyed, at the other man. "Free?" he finally managed to say, finding the word utterly bewildering. 

"Yes, Grey. Free." Then the master unwrapped the bundle and laid a handsome sword in front of Grey's knees. 

He was thrown into shock. The master had known his name all along. He had not thought of himself as Grey for a long time. He tried the name out hesitantly, to see if it still fit. He felt dislocated, yet somehow not alien. He closed his eyes and straightened his back, massaging his neck with his hands. He could feel nothing to indicate that he had spent a century with a metal cord embedded in his flesh. Yet that century remained, along with the control and self-discipline he had developed. He opened his eyes and studied... well he could not call him master, anymore, could he? 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

The black eyes widened with surprise. Then, the boy said, "I am Tran." 

Grey slowly rubbed his arms, trying to fit himself in his body. The change was too sudden, but he was intent on adapting to it. He caught Tran looking at him with that fond smile again. Grey closed his eyes and thought about how much he had changed. He thought about how a century together had left him with the mystery of this Immortal child. He opened his eyes again and held out his hand. Tran eyed the hand wistfully, then finally reached out and clasped Grey's wrist. Grey closed his own fingers gently around Tran's wrist. He gazed hopefully into the black eyes. "Would you teach me?" 

For a moment, total shock registered across the young face. It was Tran's turn to gape at Grey. Then, almost in a breath, he said, "Me?" 

"Yes." 

Though it took a few hours to convince Tran that Grey truly wanted to be his student, at last he agreed. Grey never asked what became of the cord Tran had put around his neck at the beginning, and Tran never offered the information. 

**Cassandra's**

"About a century later, we arrived in his homeland. He was curious to see how it had changed. We still go back there, every century and a half." 

"When did you last go there?" 

"1905, or sometime around then." 

Cassandra settled further into her chair, watching Grey out of hazel eyes. She tilted her head, curiously. "I am surprised you don't wear a beard." 

"Oh, I do sometimes. I wore one about a century ago...." 

She laughed. "You are interesting. I think I could stand Methos' company if I had you around to talk with, too." 

Grey, who had finished his drink and was pouring himself another one, looked up hopefully. "Come go with me, then?" 

Cassandra sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, I will." 

**Present**

"And that's why we're here." Grey gazed into Methos' eyes, touching his face gently. 

Methos gazed back, feeling stunned himself. This was probably how Tran had felt when Grey, whom he had enslaved and kept in terror for a century, had asked Tran to teach him. Methos finally leaned forward and kissed Grey's forehead. Then he moved down to the part of Grey's neck he suspected had been the location of the chain. Below the Adam's Apple. Grey's habit of wearing loose collars was much older than his time in Meerschweine. Methos licked along the skin and heard Grey's breath catch. He withdrew his touch despite Grey's soft protest. Instead, he stroked Grey's temple until he felt the other man drift into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

As Grey slept, Methos' mind turned quickly to the matter of Cassandra. He could have sworn he had outgrown the joy of living on the edge. Yet somehow he felt a thrill of anticipation for tomorrow. That was a pleasant change. He lived so much in the present, with his past as much as possible left unthought of. He could not live well in the present if he was always comparing today with yesterday. He had tried before. Yesterday needed to be left in yesterday, but the lessons learned had to be available at need for today. He wondered suddenly if Cassandra ever remembered that it was himself who had taught her to stab a dagger into a man in such a way that he would have no chance to stop her from fleeing. Methos had not been thinking of Kronos when he taught Cassandra that trick. He had been thinking of the dangers of seperation, and his desire that she keep her head until he found her again. 

It was not just Grey and Cassandra who had a great deal in common, but it seemed that Methos and Tran did, as well. They had both taken ignorant Immortals prisoner and then used the young ones. Both of them had fallen in love with these people whom they should have taken as students. At least, Methos was sure Tran had fallen in love with Grey. 

Though Grey had not stated his wish to bring Methos home, it was obviously the reason he was trying to instigate peace between Methos and Cassandra. Tomorrow would be another day. Methos decided he could sleep but before that, he ran through the list of ingredients he remembered having in the pantry. Yes, there were two or three teas he could make that would alleviate a hangover. He would have to be the first awake to make any of them, but a little healthy paranoia always went a long way towards preventing him from sleeping in.


End file.
